My Roommate, the Streaker

For about a year, starting around the fall of 2003, Josh was one of my roommates in a three-bedroom apartment in Williamsburg (which I’m sadly leaving very soon to move to Washington D.C.). I can’t remember exactly when, because like most shares near the Lorimer ‘L’ stop, there’s an endless stream of Craigslist-users, ‘hipsters,’ and—in Postnomenclature—’Brooklyn eccentrics’ moving in or out.

So I didn’t really know Josh very well—say, well enough to determine whether he was engaged in performance art or a mental breakdown when he ran around Times Square naked yesterday. (Cover aside, the Post offers a slideshow, too.)

But he is a playwright by trade, and a smart witty guy, so it could all be some kind of situationist prank.

Occasionally he had a theater improv troupe over to the apartment, so live performances aren’t new to him. But he was usually pretty low-key. And I never saw him eating weird scraps of food, as some anonymous Yalie claimed in the tabloid.

And for the record, I never saw him naked. Until today—on the cover of the Post.